


And Ghosts Must Do Again (What Gives Them Pain)

by sithmarauder



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Discussions of impending death, Emotional and Physical Intimacy, Enemies to Lovers, I Hate You (I Know), Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Marking, Sex, promises promises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:14:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22102396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sithmarauder/pseuds/sithmarauder
Summary: “Are you afraid?” Austria asked in the dead of night, his face tucked against Prussia’s shoulder, only giving voice to the reality they never acknowledged where he could not be seen; where his own fear could not be known.
Relationships: Austria/Prussia (Hetalia)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 62





	And Ghosts Must Do Again (What Gives Them Pain)

**Author's Note:**

> Happy 2020! Let's start the new decade off with some angst. It's been awhile since I wrote some straight-up Prussia/Austria, which is just terrible of me since I love them so dearly, and for whatever reason these scenes wouldn't stop floating around my head, so I figured I'd share. Yes, it is another "Prussia's dying, oh no" fic, but, well. I am a creature of disgusting habit, it seems.
> 
> Enjoy!

For the most part, Prussia kept up the façade of normality with more success than Austria had expected. Germany was no fool, and Austria knew all too well just how observant the other man could be, but to the naked eye, Prussia acted no differently, and if perhaps the reason Germany missed the strain to his smiles or the exhaustion was due to his own stress and exhaustion, well.

In this instance, Austria wouldn’t be the one to enlighten him. But he kept a close eye on Prussia all the same, as he always had, and on the days where Prussia could not quite maintain the illusion Austria stepped in as the distraction, as the supplementation. Perhaps he should have felt guilty about concealing this from Germany, but the part of him that still remembered a boy-child with too-wide eyes and a too-bright smile, the one he had failed over and over to protect, whispered that at least he could protect this one just a little while longer.

Besides, it was not his secret to tell. When the time came, all would be made known, but until then…

Austria turned his head, looking up from his book to where Prussia was playing the flute with single-minded intensity. He had been at it for hours at this point, aggression bleeding into other emotions until all that Austria could feel was an all-consuming _nothingness_ , and that lack of feeling was enough to prompt Austria to rise to his feet, crossing the room quietly until he stood in front of the man he had once called his greatest enemy.

“Prussia,” he murmured, reaching out to slide his fingers over Prussia’s, prepared for the way Prussia jerked as though awakening from a stupor, his eyes blinking rapidly. Austria just waited, his hand never leaving Prussia’s, thumb moving to cover that damnable scar, the omen that hung heavy over both their heads. Prussia said nothing for a few moments, standing stiff and straight in the middle of the music parlour, lips parted as he reoriented, the only sound in the room his slightly uneven breathing.

Then he stepped back, entire expression shuttering in a way that made Austria sigh.

“I’m fine, Specs,” he said gruffly as Austria lowered his hand, but as Prussia moved past him he reached out and grabbed Austria’s wrist, leaving the both of them standing there, their backs to each other but still connected.

A fitting image, Austria supposed.

“Will you—” Prussia began, but he cut himself off, frustration lacing his voice. When Austria glanced over his shoulder, turning slightly, it was to the sight of Prussia staring straight ahead, shoulders set and utterly resolute.

“Yes,” he murmured, and tried to ignore the way something in his chest seemed to fracture at the way Prussia’s shoulders shook.

* * *

They didn’t speak of it, not really. There was no point, not when they both knew there was nothing to be done. It was simply another matter in the chasm that stretched between them, impossibly wide some days and bridged with somewhat relative ease on others. So there were no words that passed between them when Prussia closed the door to his bedchambers behind them, no instructions or regrets as Austria allowed Prussia to manoeuvre them to the bed with practiced movements, a far cry from the first time Austria had permitted this, when Prussia had been so nervous his hands had shook, unsure what to do with _anyone_ let alone another man.

Now, the soldier’s surety was winning out, in many ways too late, but Austria said nothing of it. Prussia knew well enough, after all, and conveyed that through the brutality of the kiss, through the desperate aggression that dictated his every action. Austria allowed that, too, as he allowed many things. Once, the bruises Prussia left had been born from war, from a desire to take and take and destroy until there was nothing left; now, they were the scars from a new war, one with an inevitable outcome.

For once, the scars were welcome. One day, they would be all he had left.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Prussia hissed as he panted into the crook of Austria’s neck, and Austria hummed, threading his fingers into the other's hair, sighing at the pressure of Prussia’s fingers on his hips, his teeth in his skin.

"Yes,” he replied, tilting his head back with a barely audible gasp as Prussia bit down in earnest, rearranging himself in the other’s lap as Prussia’s fingers moved frantically against his skin, within his body. There was a care to his actions that Austria tried not to read too deeply into, not now, not when they had no time and acknowledging what they both knew would only mean more pain, but he supposed he displayed the same care back when he eased down, when he arched into the hands sliding up his back, when he ignored the hot splash of tears against his throat where Prussia’s face was buried.

“Come on then,” Austria murmured, knowing Prussia would understand, and he did not smile when Prussia choked out a desperate, keening laugh, but he did shift to press a kiss into sweaty white locks.

"I hate you,” Prussia said desperately. Austria sighed.

“I know.”

* * *

“Austria!”

The alarm in Germany’s voice had Austria stopping instantly, turning with a frown already in place to face the other man even as he placed his steaming cup of breakfast tea back onto the kitchen counter: a silent query. Germany stepped forward, his eyes fixed below Austria’s own, and Austria’s frown deepened, wondering if he had spilled something on the oversized navy shirt he was wearing—not his own, but he doubted Germany would question where it came from.

He was unprepared for the way Germany surged forward, placing one large hand at his jaw with a tentative gentleness he had not expected, and Austria’s eyes widened in alarm until Germany said, “your _neck_.”

Immediately Austria’s hand flew up, inadvertently covering Germany’s own, where he knew the marks in question must be, exposed by the open collar of the rumpled shirt.

“I—”

“Are you all right?” The concern in Germany’s voice, in his eyes, would have been heart-warming were Austria prepared for it, but as it was he could only lower his gaze, turning his head to the side to focus on his teacup as he lowered his hand.

“I’m unharmed,” he said, and Germany made a small grunt of disbelief, but he seemed to realize the position they were in and stepped back hastily, face reddening somewhat when Austria looked back up. That was how he spotted Prussia, leaning against the doorframe with an inscrutable expression, his arms crossed resolutely over his chest. For a moment their eyes met over Germany’s shoulder, a silent exchange.

Germany said, low and urgent, “you are sure?” and Austria, never moving his eyes from Prussia’s, said simply, “yes.”

Over Germany’s shoulder, Prussia cocked his head to the side, his mouth in a firm line, but then he pushed himself into the room with a jovial “morning, West!” and Austria picked up his teacup again, breathing in the comforting scent as he leaned against the kitchen counter, tired and sore and momentarily just—in existence.

“Brother,” Germany acknowledged as Prussia grinned and made his way towards the fridge, but as he passed Austria he reached out with one hand, catching a few strands of Austria’s damnably straight hair between his thumb and index finger.

“It’s nicer like this,” he said quietly. Austria sucked in a sharp breath, surprised, but then Prussia glanced at Germany, plastered on a smirk that was just a tad too frayed at the edges, and said, “it makes you look less like the stuck-up little aristocrat we all know you still are.”

Austria huffed, and Germany closed his eyes and sighed the sigh of the long-suffering, but a sense of normalcy had returned to the kitchen, and soon the air was filled with the sound of the brothers’ friendly bickering, with only the occasional interjection by Austria himself—sipping his tea contentedly whilst leaning against the counter—where he deemed it necessary.

It did not escape his notice, however, that neither brother could keep their eyes from drifting to the dark bruises that trailed up his neck and coloured the left side of his jaw—the bruises that matched the ones on his hips, on his thighs, a secret only two of the three people in the room knew. And when Germany turned his back to finish the eggs he was cooking at the stove and Prussia moved to slip past them with his own food in hand, he only hesitated a moment before he used the tight squeeze to briefly rest his hand on Austria’s thigh, right where one of the bruises lay, pressing their foreheads together for the quickest second before moving on, hardly missing a beat in his verbal exchange.

Germany was none the wiser. Austria prayed to God it would remain that way for just awhile longer.

* * *

“Are you afraid?” Austria asked in the dead of night, his face tucked against Prussia’s shoulder, only giving voice to the reality they never acknowledged where he could not be seen; where his own fear could not be known.

Prussia was silent, though Austria knew better than to think him asleep, and Austria was half-drifting himself by the time Prussia rolled them over, slipping his hands under Austria’s nightshirt and settling them hips so that Prussia’s thumbs were just brushing the marks left there.

“I’m fucking terrified.” No nicknames, no deflections, just the truth: bald-faced and blunt and the kind of thing they never spoke to each other. His thumbs began rubbing small circles against Austria’s skin, and when the movements became more insistent Austria hummed and draped his arms around Prussia’s neck, allowing the other to manoeuvre them to his satisfaction.

Later, sweaty and sated, Austria’s hands still tangled in Prussia’s hair, Prussia spoke again, breath hot against Austria’s chest.

“You’ll stay with him, won’t you? You won’t let him be alone?” And underneath it the always unspoken, _you’ll stay with me? You won’t let me be alone either?_ There was no questioning whether the act of dying hurt, not like the first time; there was no wondering what happened to those who simply ceased to be. There was only Prussia’s earnest need for his brother to be taken care of, the way they had failed so many times to do before; to not be alone, the way Prussia himself had been for so very long.

Austria closed his eyes, sorrow in his breast, the passing of the years suddenly heavy on his shoulders. He was no Atlas, not any longer, but all the world he had left he felt as though he were bearing anyway, and Prussia’s passing, when it inevitably came, would bring with it only more weight. Once, so long ago, he would have given anything for Prussia to disappear—had once prayed to God for it, while Prussia himself had done his best to bring Austria’s empires down around his ears. Now… there was so much there, so much unspoken— _too_ much, really, for them to ever give voice to it. So they didn’t. They wouldn’t. _Couldn’t._ Instead, they existed as they were, horribly mangled palimpsests doing their best to express through action and hidden meaning what they never could through any other means. And Austria knew there was only one answer he could give to Prussia’s question.

He hummed a low, familiar tune as Prussia pushed himself up, hovering above him, little more than a silhouette in the gloom. Then, when Prussia opened his mouth to speak again, Austria carefully lifted one finger, pressed it to Prussia’s mouth, and said softly: “yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> Your comments/kudos/bookmarks are my bread and butter, and anyone who knows me can attest to just how much I love/exist on bread and butter. This was a bit of a different vibe/style for me, so I hope people can enjoy it despite that.
> 
> As always, you can find me on [my tumblr (empirics)](https://empirics.tumblr.com/), where I muck about with history and some other things, cry softly about all my boys/men/anthropomorphic countries, change my URL, and occasionally take prompts in between case briefs. I always love talking to people, even if tumblr's messaging system is complete and utter garbage.


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